CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 25
They decided to take Kari’s car into town, as Rafi and Graham’s van was filled with items for the guesthouse. Or so they claimed. But as they pulled out their overnight cases, Kari spotted three wooden crates with LIMOGES stamped on the sides.
Fifteen minutes later they met on the front porch, showered and dressed and ready. Thus far, Kari had managed to explain only that there was a special event, one the entire town had become involved in. To say anything more would have been like pulling on a thread and unraveling the entire garment. As she locked her front door, Kari decided she had to at least make a start on the way into town. Tell them the basics. About Ian. Graham’s favorite classical musician. Whose music formed a backdrop to any number of gallery events. Here. Playing at Castaways. Oh, and he was being accompanied by Connor Larkin. The movie star. Give them a chance to pepper her with questions. Which they would. For hours.
But as she left the porch, Sienna raced up to the screen door and started yowling. Which meant they spent the entire drive into Miramar debating whether Kari should take the kitten to Miami. The only alternative, Graham insisted, was to leave Sienna in a cattery. “No way are you leaving that poor beast in the care of a child.”
“Liam’s mother is a detective,” Kari pointed out. “She’s promised to help.”
“Say she does. Say they stop by to feed Sienna. And the kitten slips by them and escapes into the wild. What would you do then?”
Kari started to say she wouldn’t go. The kitten was such a perfect reason not to travel. She was suddenly flooded with a desire to call it all off. Never leave behind her safe little Central Coast haven.
Indrid might as well have been seated in the rear seat beside Rafi. Watching her, solemn and silent.
In the end, all Kari said was, “I wish I knew what to do.”
“You have another couple of days to decide,” Rafi said.
Graham nodded. “Right now we need to talk about your brother.”
“He’s stopped by,” Rafi said. “Twice. Limo idling at the curb.”
“When I called last night, we were borderline frantic,” Graham said.
“Our first stall in the Miami exhibition hall,” Rafi said. “Across from the entrance. All those sad, empty walls.”
“Your brother is desperate to attend the gala,” Graham said. “It was the only way he’d even consider letting us show your painting.”
“Which we simply had to have,” Rafi said.
“Your brother can be very insistent,” Graham said.
“Aggressive,” Rafi added. “Demanding. Loud.”
“When we refused to tell him where you were or pass on your phone number, he became quite rude.”
“That sounds like Justin.” For the first time since her arrival, Kari’s family crowded in. Her mind felt split in two. The lovely California countryside basked in another gathering dusk. The breeze through her open window carried the Pacific spice she had come to love. Yet battling for her attention was the coldly avaricious flavor of her former home. The shrieking battles leading to divorce. Her mother’s frigid disdain. Her brother’s ability to pretend at momentary affection whenever a young lady captured his attention. Her father . . .
Graham broke into her reverie. “The gala is one of the city’s biggest annual fundraisers. Tickets run several thousand apiece.”
“Numbers are strictly limited,” Rafi said. “It sells out in days. Hours.”
“When I tried to put him off, he flew into such a rage,” Graham said. He added in a smaller voice, “He frightened me.”
Kari nodded, remembering. Her father’s fury shook the earth. There was no telling what would set him off, so Kari had learned early on to avoid the man and flee his sudden eruptions. Justin’s anger was more predictable and his outbursts far less common. He went weeks without revealing his darker side. Then something would stand between him and whatever goal he had in his sights. And he plowed his own furrow with molten wrath.
“I don’t understand. What is so important about this gala? Justin doesn’t care about Miami society,” she said.
“The Miami show has become the largest contemporary art fair in the entire country,” Rafi said. “The opening gala is a major event on the annual society calendar. Big names fly in from all over.”
When she stopped at a light, Graham observed, “You’re upset.”
“A little.”
“Soon as this is over, I’ll put on my fire-retardant gear and call him back. Tell Justin—”
She pulled into a parking space and cut the motor. “No. Don’t.”
“Kari, I know you’re under so much pressure. The last thing I want, the very last, is to add—”
“Tell Justin he’s welcome.” She watched a group of chattering people walk past their car. “I can’t tell how much of what I feel is real. How much is an echo from the past.”
Despite his fluttering nerves, Rafi had often struck her as the wiser and more observant of the two. Like now. “You’re not just talking about your brother.”
“No.”
“It’s everything. The trip, Miami, the showcase, the gala. All of it.”
Kari breathed around the enormity of what lay ahead. She could almost hear Indrid’s voice. Telling Ian that his confusion and uncertainty were no reasons to stop moving forward. Kari had suspected the woman had meant her words for her, as well. Now she was certain.
She opened her door. “Let’s go inside.”
* * *
The bartender, Marcela, spotted them at the entrance and came rushing over. “Ian’s been asking for you. I think he was worried you couldn’t make it.” She led them up front, to a coveted table by the side wall. A sweating ice bucket held an unopened bottle of champagne and two glasses. Marcela pulled a third chair from several stacked beside the stage and said, “I’ll snag you another glass.”
Once they were seated, Graham asked, “And just who is this Ian?”
The bartender’s smile widened as she started away.
“Marcela, wait.” Kari pointed to an oil painting on the wall above their table. It showed a cove very much like Miramar’s, sheltered in two cupped hands fashioned from a starlit night. “Whose work is this?”
Marcela’s expression softened. “Sylvie’s father.”
“Really? It’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t it?” Marcela studied the work. “I see it so often, I forget.”
“Is he here?”
“Who? John? No, he passed years ago. Have Sylvie tell you about growing up on the road, traveling from Alaska to Baja, selling his works as they went.” Someone called Marcela’s name. She started away, adding, “Only don’t ask her tonight.”
The room was beyond full. Most of the tables were crammed so tightly, the patrons rubbed shoulders with those seated nearby. Kari’s was positioned in an island of its own, separated by a channel holding thick electric cables. A small stepladder was positioned by the stage’s left corner, with a video camera resting on top. A control board now dominated the bar.
Rafi asked, “What on earth is going on?”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you—” She stopped at the sight of Ian rushing toward them.
“Kari, I’m so glad you made it.” Ian leaned over, kissed her cheek, set down a third glass, then said to the two astonished men, “Hi. Welcome to bedlam.”
Rafi said, “You’re Ian Hart.”
“Am I? Oh, good. I was worried.” Ian snagged his stool from the stage and settled on it with his back to the room.
Kari asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, you know. Last-minute issues.”
But the parchment-tight lines around his eyes, the worried expression, said otherwise. “No, I don’t know. Do you want to tell me?”
“Actually, I could use your advice.” Ian glanced at the two men. “If it’s okay.”
“Rafi and Graham are my managers. And two of my oldest friends. Tell me what’s troubling you.”
“We could leave,” Graham offered.
“And go where?” Rafi waved at the room. To Ian, he explained, “We run an art gallery two blocks off Rodeo. What we know, what we never talk about, would topple regimes.”
“Rafi.”
“Well, it’s true.”
Swiftly, Ian recounted Connor’s early years as a struggling musician, his acceptance that he might never make it, his rise to stardom as an actor. And his occasional nights playing on the stage. Here. In Castaways.
Rafi said, “You’re talking about Connor Larkin.”
“Of course he is,” Graham said. “Now let’s both play mute.”
“Go on,” Kari said. “What’s happened tonight?”
“He’s scared,” Ian replied. “It’s been building since he learned about Miami.”
Rafi sat up straight. “Wait, what?”
“Later,” Kari said. To Ian, she urged, “Go on.”
“I thought, you know, Connor is a highly trained actor. He’s a pro at dealing with stress and performing when the cameras start shooting. But it’s started to infect the band. Danny’s crew. Everybody. They’ve lost the spark, the joy. I feel like I should . . .”
“What?”
“Take over. Become lead.”
“Why don’t you?”
“It’s his band, Kari. They’ve been playing together for years.” Ian nodded at the stage. “We’re playing tonight in his restaurant.”
Graham asked, “And precisely what difference does all that make?”
“A lot. It makes a huge—”
“Ian, I’m sorry. But your perspective is skewed. The points you’re making, they don’t matter,” Graham said. “Right now, in this moment, it’s all about the performance.”
Ian opened his mouth. Started to speak. Leaned back. Silent.
Graham asked, “I take it from all the equipment that tonight is being filmed?”
“The main event is Miami. Danny Byrd has us playing part of his current film’s soundtrack. Now he’s putting together a documentary. That is, assuming everyone performs up to grade.”
“And that is precisely the point, isn’t it?” Graham said. “Making sure everyone gives their absolute best.”
Rafi said, “Danny Byrd, the producer?”
“Right. How do you know Danny?”
“We’re a Beverly Hills art gallery,” Rafi replied. “We survive by knowing everyone who matters.”
Graham rested his hand on Rafi’s arm. Settle. He asked, “Where are Connor and the band now?”
“Upstairs.”
“Your actor-musician friend sees this as a step toward his oldest dreams coming true. And he is terrified. How can you possibly worry about taking control of this situation?”
Ian remained silent.
“Your friend needs you. The band needs you. How do you normally prepare for a gig?”
Ian did not reply.
Graham nodded, as if silence was the proper response. “You make the world go away, correct? Fine. Now, you march right upstairs and do what’s necessary.”
Ian rose slowly, his gaze steady on Graham. Stared down at the three of them for a long moment. Then turned and walked away.
Soon as they were alone, Rafi said, “That was Ian Hart.”
“Yes,” Kari said. “It was.”
Graham dropped his head into his hands and groaned.
Rafi’s smile held a mischievous edge. “Feeling a bit under the weather, are we?”
Graham moaned a second time. “I can’t believe I just told him how to do his music.”
“You most certainly did,” Rafi said. Not quite laughing. “That and a great deal more.”
“I feel like the world’s number one dodo,” Graham said.
Rafi chuckled.
Kari said, “Graham, you just told Ian what I couldn’t.”
A long moment passed before Graham managed to lift his gaze.
Kari went on, “I didn’t have any idea what Ian needed to hear until you said it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“Oh, do let him suffer just a little bit longer,” Rafi said. “He never lets me off that easy.”
“You two have always been there for me,” Kari said. “Just like now.”